After signing the power supply contract, it took only thirty hours to string the two-kilometer-long aluminum-core high-voltage cables.
As the massive knife switch was thrown, the lights in the shelter flickered once and then stabilized. No longer was it the dim, swaying, miserable glow of under-voltage; it was now a stark white, steady, flicker-free industrial illumination.
Immediately after, the three massive bio-reactors emitted an unprecedented hum. A steady 380-volt industrial current flowed into the heating rods and stirring motors.
When they relied on geothermal power, the voltage fluctuated wildly, causing the temperature curves inside the reactors to resemble a roller coaster. Without constant vigilance, the temperatures would either drop too low, causing the fungal strains to go dormant, or spike too high, scalding them to death.
Now, the constant temperature control system was online. This meant the production of starch spheres wouldn't just increase linearly; it would grow exponentially. As long as raw materials kept up, these three reactors could run twenty-four hours a day, non-stop, spitting out high-calorie white food.
Electricity was order. Electricity was efficiency.
Standing in the newly built distribution room, Andy watched the row of green indicator lights. The sense of anxiety in his heart finally dissipated significantly. He walked to a dedicated charging port and plugged in a finger. Nothing made an Iron Man feel more secure than being able to charge at full power whenever and wherever needed.
Nearby, Gamma-9 was holding a small brush, piously applying sacred oils to the casing of a newly installed transformer. He painted slowly, each stroke resembling a work of art, while chanting under his breath.
Watching the old Priest's earnest expression, Andy finally couldn't hold back his question.
"Gamma-9." Andy withdrew his finger. The surge of energy made his voice sound even more resonant. "You're a legitimate Tech-Priest, aren't you?"
Gamma-9 stopped his movements, turned around, and looked at Andy with his lone eye in confusion.
"Of course, Sage," Gamma-9 puffed out his chest and pointed to the nearly worn-away gear emblem on his tattered robe. "I am a formally ordained Junior Priest of the Foundry Cult of Mechanics."
"Then how did you end up like this?" Andy pointed at the dilapidated surroundings. "By all rights, you should be in a factory in the Mid-spire or Upper-spire, at least with clean water to drink and spare parts to swap. How did you end up leading a group of refugees in this corner of the Underhive that even mutants despise, guarding a nearly scrapped recycler for all these years?"
This wasn't just Andy's biggest question over the past few days; it was a glaring logical hole. While the Adeptus Mechanicus was strictly hierarchical, they valued technical personnel and would never let an ordained Priest rot on the streets.
Gamma-9 froze, the red light in his eye dimming. He remained silent for a long time before finally speaking.
"Because... there were no orders."
"No orders?" Andy was puzzled.
"Thirty years ago, this was Air Purification Station No. 492, a core node for the entire 7th Industrial District," Gamma-9's voice carried the weight of memory. "Later, it seems the upper levels performed an administrative rezoning. I heard it was because a high-ranking official in the Departmento Munitorum had a shaky hand while drawing the new maps, or perhaps ink was spilled.
Regardless, on the new maps, the 7th Industrial District was crossed out and became an 'Unknown Abandoned Zone.' From that day on, the supply ships stopped coming, and the orders for periodic maintenance ceased."
Andy understood. This was the daily reality under the vast and stagnant bureaucracy of the Imperium.
A clerical error by a scribe or a lost data-slate could result in a planet starving hundreds of millions to death, or a fleet waiting in the Warp for an attack order that would never come until they simply ceased to function.
Such things sounded absurd in reality, but in the Warhammer universe, they were more common than breathing.
"Then why didn't you leave?" Andy asked. "Since the supplies were cut, you could have appealed to your superiors or applied for a transfer."
Gamma-9 shook his head, his tone becoming exceptionally firm. "There was no order to retreat. My vows of ordination stated: 'Until the Machine Spirit is extinguished, until the gears crumble, I shall stand my post.'
The superiors never issued an order to shut down the station, nor did they issue an order to retreat. If I left, I would be a deserter, a sinner who turned his back on the Omnissiah. So, I stayed. I took my apprentices and we patched things up here. We dismantled broken parts to fix others and forced machines that should have been scrapped to keep running. I have stood guard for thirty years."
As he finished, Gamma-9 looked up at Andy. There was no regret in his lone eye, only a nearly foolish persistence.
Watching the old man, Andy felt the disdain he previously held for their "sacred oil" rituals shift into something subtle. At the end of the day, these people were indeed ignorant, dogmatic, and had turned science into superstition. Yet, it was precisely this stubborn dogma that allowed them to preserve a final spark in a forgotten corner of the Imperium without any support.
For Gamma-9, it wasn't that he didn't want to leave; he didn't know where to go. His world was constructed of directives. Without a directive, he could only die where he stood.
And now, Andy had appeared. Andy hadn't just fixed the machines; he had given him new directives. This was why Gamma-9 was so utterly devoted to him. In that channel that had been silent for thirty years, someone who sounded like a superior had finally given him an order. Even if that order was to boil porridge or move bricks, he would do it gladly.
"You don't need to wait for those damn Departmento orders anymore," Andy patted Gamma-9's semi-mechanical shoulder. "From now on, my word is the order. I'm reinstating the commission for this purification station."
Gamma-9's body trembled violently. He nodded heavily, his eyes moist. "Yes, Sage!"
Having settled the personnel's psychological state, Andy turned his attention back to production. With power, people, and raw materials, it was time to upgrade this workshop-style manual production line.
Andy opened the STC database. From the vast sea of blueprints, he selected a very basic but extremely important piece of equipment.
[Universal Automatic Stamping Press (Type T-4)]
This wasn't high-tech; it didn't even require sophisticated chip control. Its principle was incredibly simple: a large flywheel, a crankshaft, a heavy hammer, and a set of molds. A motor drove the flywheel to store energy, the crankshaft converted the rotational motion into a reciprocating vertical motion, and finally, the multi-ton hammerhead slammed down.
With a single clang, any metal sheet placed in the mold would be instantly squeezed into shape.
Andy insisted on building this first because the stamping press was the starting point of industrial standardization. Currently, everything in the shelter was hand-hammered. Refugees used hammers to beat scrap metal into bowls, knives, and armor plates. Not only was efficiency low, but everyone's output was different. If bullet casings were hand-hammered, accuracy was impossible, and even chambering them would be difficult.
But with a stamping press, everything changed. Just swap in the mold for a bullet casing and feed in the copper sheet.
Clang, clang, clang.
At sixty cycles per minute, you would get sixty identical, standard casings with a precision error of less than 0.1mm. Swap in the mold for armor plating, and you'd get sixty standard protective inserts.
Andy immediately broke the blueprints down into sections. The flywheel could be modified from the abandoned mine cart wheels sent over by Roger. Motors were plentiful, and the frame could be welded directly from I-beams. The only difficulty was the die steel, which required high-hardness material.
However, Andy thought of the spikes and chains on that Skinner truck. While their design was idiotic, the materials used were actually scraps of high-strength alloy steel.
"Take them, melt them down, and recast them." Andy distributed the tasks. Under Gamma-9's command, the three technicians sent by Roger immediately busied themselves.
Two days later, in a corner of the shelter, a massive, somewhat ugly machine stood tall. Andy stepped forward and pressed the start button.
The motor hummed, driving the massive flywheel into a spin. The flywheel turned faster and faster, accumulating terrifying kinetic energy. Andy fed a piece of scrap iron into the intake.
THUD!!!
Tons of impact force were released instantly. An iron sheet slid out from the other end. It had successfully turned into a perfectly curved... iron shovel head.